Hi!

Well, I've finished (I think) the next chapter, and just sent it off to the prereaders, so here's the revised repost of the last chapter, just in case you've forgotten what's happened.  Enjoy, and as always, C&C is greatly appreciated; private's great, but public is even better!  And as soon as the prereaders are done, and I've made the necessary fixes, I'll post the next installment.

Later!
Mike Noakes

***

What has gone before:

While visiting a possible future university, Ranma ran afoul of
Happosai.  During the inevitable fight, a strange book was slipped
into his possession.  Upon inspection, the book hinted at both
Jusenkyo and the possibilities of a cure.  Heading to school the next
day in the hopes of finding someone to help translate the text, he
instead was confronted by two other individuals seeking the book.
Their names were Zara and Karadoku.  A battle ensued, which
Ranma lost.  The book, however, was not on him, and Ranma
realized that Akane had taken it from him during a moment of
distraction.  Running home, he discovered his fiancee entrapped by
magics she had unwittingly released from the book.  He rescued
her, but in the aftermath a strange sigil flared briefly upon her brow.
Gabriel, a man watching from the sidelines, warned of worse to
come.

***

The thin line, pale against his skin, started a centimetre or two
above the left nipple.  It followed the inner pectoral curve halfway
down, before twisting sharply and slashing straight across the flesh
of his right breast.  It ended abruptly, in a mottled ridge of hardened
tissue.  Ranma Saotome shifted this way and that, examining the
fresh scar in the mirror, and estimated it to be nearly forty
centimetres long.  A scar, he thought, not entirely displeased but
rather surprised.  I've never had one before.  I wonder what Akane
will think of it.
   He never scarred.  He healed too quickly.  Despite the
frequent and savage beatings he had suffered throughout his career
as a martial artist, there had yet to be a wound from which he could
not recover quickly.  And yet, there it was, the long, slightly jagged
line curving across his chest.  That guy from yesterday, Karadoku,
he did this, Ranma thought.  At the end, when I was already down.
He cut me deeper than I thought.  And before it had time to heal
properly, I wrestled with that barrier, and the heat must have
burned the gash into my chest.
   Curious, he splashed his face with water, and the shift into
girlhood did far more to dispel early morning sleepiness than the
bracing chill.  The scar remained but followed a different path
across his fuller chest.  The scar's beginning stood in sharp contrast
against the dark skin of the larger areola.  Made sinuous through
stretching, the wound now coiled from the top of one full breast and
curled out of sight beneath the curve of the other.  He slowly traced
the line and rolled the skin between two fingers, feeling the different
texture of the rawer tissue.  A slow smile crept across his face.


                 Let the Curtain Fall
                          by Michael Noakes
                          based on characters by Takahashi Rumiko


   Lo! thy dread Empire, Chaos, is restored;
   Light dies before thine uncreating word:
   Thy hand, great Anarch, lets the curtain fall;
   And universal darkness buries all.
   -The Dunciad


Act One,
Chapter Two:
Fresh Scars


He sneaked into his parents' room with all the subtle prowess that
his own father had taught him.  In the empty quiet and pale
darkness of the very early morning, Ranma Saotome crept
soundlessly across tatami as he approached Genma's supine form.
The spring air was cool, its scent fresh, the slight breeze an
exhilarating backdrop to his subterfuge.  His mother's form was all
but hidden behind his father's massive bulk.  Neither stirred as he
knelt next to their shared futon; Genma's deep human snores didn't
lessen.  Ranma knew that snore well, he had lived with its nightly
snorts for more than a decade.  How many times had he lain awake
in the pre-dawn dusk on some foreign soil, listening to those
rumbles, reassured by their continuance?  As the sun would slowly
rise the sound would falter, die out, and within minutes his father
would be up, dragging Ranma from beneath his blanket, and the
morning's training would begin.
   Now?  No more snores; no more training.  That was about
to change.
   "Hey, Pop," he whispered.  "Get up."
   No response, nor had he expected one.  Ranma smirked.
He cocked one arm back.  Time to wake up, he thought, and
brought the fist smashing down.
   Genma's large hand snapped up and caught the attack.  A
moment later his eyes opened and focussed on his grinning son
leaning over him.  "What," he asked, anger underscoring his loud
whisper, "do you think you're doing?"
   "Getting you up, old man."
   The Saotome patriarch released his son's fist and glanced
at the alarm clock at his side.  His eyes widened in surprise.
"Ranma, it's only four o'clock!  What the hell are you doing here?
I thought you stayed the night at Tendo's."
   "So I came home early."
   "Early?  I don't have to get up for another hour!"
   "Sorry, Pops, but you have to get up now."
   "Why on earth would I do that?"
   "Training time."
   "What?"  Genma's eyes narrowed.  "Your arrogance
knows no bounds, Boy.  You think it's your turn to dictate when
we train, now?"
   "Yeah, Pop, I do," Ranma answered, smile dropping.
"'Cus you sure as hell ain't dictating nothin'.  We haven't sparred in
weeks."
   "You spar with Akane.  That should suffice."  He rolled
over, turning away from his son.  "Now leave me alone.  I've still
got an hour left."
   Ranma watched his father's unmoving bulk for several
minutes.  Severe disappointment rose within; accompanying it were
the first inklings of contempt.  Pathetic, he thought.  But then he
remembered the tired eyes of two days ago and his own arrogance
turned bitter: perhaps something unseen, something he couldn't
understand, lay at the root of his father's apathy.
   But, no, he told himself, no excuses.  The Art before all
else, that's what Pop taught me.  Train hard in times of health; when
sick, train to get better.  Train hard when focussed; when troubled,
train to dispel the distraction.  How to remind his father of this?
Would the old hypocrite even listen?
   Sighing, Ranma left the room.


   The attack, coming from behind as it did in the midst of his
training, almost took him by surprise.  As it was, he just had enough
time to twist around and cleave the incoming log from the air with a
swift chop.  Genma stepped from the doorway that had concealed
his presence, and frowned.
   "Pathetic," he said.  "You've got a girl's predilection
towards self-absorption and obliviousness."
   Ranma faced his father, and concealed his happiness at
Genma's arrival behind a scowl.  "Yeah, whatever.  I've got
training to do, so if you don't mind. . . I don't got time for old
men."  Turning away, he began the first moves of an intermediate
kata.  At around the fifth step, Genma's flying kick caught him in
the side and sent him crashing into a wall.  Bouncing back, Ranma
ducked beneath the follow-up strike, stepping in and past his
opponent.  He turned and faced his father across the small distance
between them.
   "So you've still got some fight left in you, eh, old man?"
   "I'll show you just how much I've got left, Boy!"
   And then they both smiled, and with a battle cry that rang
loud and clear through the quiet morning dusk, father and son found
themselves amidst a flurry of punches and kicks.


   Ranma almost skipped along as he made his way towards
his fiancee's house.  In a moment of weakness he even whistled a
nameless happy little tune.  He threw a few cheerful punches at an
unseen opponent, danced around imaginary attacks.  Catching a
few odd glances, he smiled in return and slipped back into a normal
walk.
   What a great way to start a day, he thought, and felt like
shouting it aloud.  Had he ever missed sparring in the morning!
With his old, fat, cheating lazy panda of a father.  His lying stealing
hypocrite of a shitty old man.  His dad.  Still full of surprises.
Ranma felt the new bruise on his side and grinned.  He wouldn't fall
for that sneaky little attack again tomorrow.
   Only thirty minutes, and in that brief time the dullness that
had pervaded Genma's eyes for weeks had faded and been
replaced by the familiar sly twinkle that Ranma had so missed.
Later, at the breakfast table, they had traded covert strikes at each
other's food, snagged morsels behind his mother's back.  Innocent
grins hiding stuffed mouths was all she found when turned to
confront them.  Man, Ranma thought, I don't think Pop's been this
happy in months.
   Not entirely happy, Ranma reminded himself.  For at the end of their sparring session, Genma had levelled a serious expression at his son and demanded an explanation.
   "An explanation?" Ranma had asked, reaching for his shirt.
   "The scar."
   Which had come as a surprise to the younger Saotome.  After the events of last night, he had called home to tell his parents about what had happened.  It was at his mother's urging that he had stayed the night at the Tendos' -- not that he had had any intent of leaving the household unguarded for the night.  He had wanted to tell his father, but he had not yet returned from work; he had assumed Nodoka would pass the information along.  Yet the full explanation had come as a complete surprise to Genma.
   "That's no good," he had said, and frowned.  "You shouldn't have lost."
   "That's what I say."
   "You need to step up your training.  You've been lazy."
   Which had just been an invitation for a beating, and they
had fought some more, and insulted each other some more, and
finally ended with an agreement that they would return to their
morning training.  Ranma had no delusion that it would be easy.
Once the initial excitement faded, he wondered if he would be so
ecstatic about getting up at four in the morning, every morning.  But
we need it, he thought.  He absently traced the new line decorating
his chest through the material of his shirt.  I have a debt to repay.
   After the second fight, they had leapt to the top of their
apartment complex to watch as the rising sun dispelled the curtain
of night and tainted the far horizon in bloody hues.  Neither had
spoken, nor had there been any need to.  The moment had been a
reminder of simpler days, long ago, spent together watching similar
dawns in the euphoric aftermath of successful training.  Only after,
once they had returned to the ground, had Genma continued his
questions.
   "Is Akane alright?"
    "Yeah," Ranma had answered.  "She looked a little dazed
when she woke up last night, but fine.  Kasumi sent her straight to
bed."
   "And you left her alone?"
   "Hey, I didn't have a choice!  The weird guy said we had
some time -- and if bad things are coming, I need to be ready.  I'm
gonna head back as soon as we're done here."  Then he had
shrugged, and grinned sheepishly, and added, "Besides, I stood
guard by her door all night.  I haven't been to sleep yet.  I'm
bushed."
   And Genma had laughed and slapped him hard across the
back.
   Breaking out of his musing, Ranma slowly became aware of
a commotion up ahead.  A small crowd was clustered together at
the next street corner, and amidst their number he could see police
officers moving about and controlling the people.  Well, that's
strange, he thought, the police don't come around here all that
often.  I wonder what's up?  He moved closer.
   "There's no point," said a tremulous, familiar voice from
behind.  "They've already cleaned everything up."
   "Gosunkugi?" Ranma exclaimed, surprised and, if not
entirely pleased, not quite displeased to see the scrawny, pale-
faced guy again.  "Hey, man, what's up?  I haven't seen you in
months."
   "I've been around.  I've also been busy," the boy
answered.  "Getting a portfolio together.  For university."  He
gestured at the expensive-looking camera at his side.
   "Ah," Ranma said, craning his neck to see past the people
blocking his view.
   "I like taking pictures in the early morning.  It's quiet.  And
honest."
   "How interesting."
   "You're not going to see anything."
   "Un."
   "I have to go now."
   "Bye."
   Ranma didn't really notice Gosunkugi's departure.  His
efforts to find out why the police were around, however, came to
nothing.  "Nothing to see here," one officer insisted, and indeed it
seemed that whatever had happened was long over.  Minutes later
the crowd dispersed and, slightly bemused, still curious, and
somewhat disappointed, Ranma continued on his way.  Whatever it
was, he told himself, it couldn't have been all that important.
Maybe it'll pop up on the news tonight or something.


   He hesitated momentarily at the front door, as he always
did, before entering without knocking.  It's strange, Ranma mused,
but this house still feels more like home than the new place does.
Or at least as close to a home as I've ever known.  Thinking that
way made him feel guilty, like he was betraying his mother or
something; but the familiarity he felt as he slipped out of his shoes
and stepped into the house remained both comforting and
welcoming.  The atmosphere here was simply less stressful than at
home.
   "Ranma," howled Mr. Tendo, the moment he laid eyes
upon the boy, "where have you been?"
   "Mr. Tendo?"
   "My daughter was nearly ravaged by arcane forces from
beyond the pale!  Evil beings sworn to destroy us all are coming!
And you go and take a _morning stroll_?"
   "Don't worry about him," added a dry voice, "he's been
like this all morning."
   Ranma turned as Nabiki slid into the room, can of cola in
hand.  He was surprised to find her here, for he hadn't seen much
of her lately.  She rarely visited.  The middle Tendo daughter, now
nineteen, looked as if life was treating her very well indeed.
Whereas Akane, in growing up and filling out, had lost some of the
tomboy edge from her appearance, Nabiki had most certainly
made the shift into sexy -- and she damn well knew it.  The hair
was shorter, the clothes sharper, the mannerisms more refined;
rumour had it she had a boyfriend now, a starving artist, even; but it
was the same mischievous Nabiki that levelled half-lidded eyes
upon her future brother-in-law, and caused the return of the familiar
shiver that two years of living with her had conditioned into him.
   "Kasumi gave me a call last night," she offered by way of
explanation, taking a seat.  "So I thought I'd come by for a visit.
And before you ask, yes, Tokyo U's great, having fun, doing well."
   "Happy to hear. . . ."
   "Kuno says hi.  Well, not really.  He says 'a thousand black
plagues upon the vile Saotome and the entire lineage that spawned
him.'  He also says, 'a thousand thousand sweet kisses to the
radiant angel who holds my heart, the boisterous pigtailed girl.'"
   "Gyah."
   "Would you believe he's actually calmed down a lot?  But
that's not important.  The _real_ question is: what have you gotten
my baby sister into _this_ time?"
   "Hey!" Ranma flushed red, in protest and some anger -- while feeling the stirring of familiar guilt.  "I didn't do anything!  She's the one who stole the book from me!"
   Nabiki arched an eyebrow.  "And who's the one who found the book in the first place?"
   "But-."
   "That's enough, Nabiki," interrupted a soft voice.  "It's not
nice to tease Ranma like that.  I'm sure he feels bad enough as it
is."
   Kasumi, coming down the stair carrying a tray of dirty
dishes, offered up her usual warm, welcoming smile.  She had
entered adulthood with grace as well, gathering an unaffected
serene beauty about her.  It was hard to believe that Kasumi was
now in her twenties, Nabiki nineteen -- but then, he was eighteen,
and sometimes he found himself wondering where the last two
years had gone.  "And I'm sure," the oldest sister continued, "that
he'll do everything he can to get Akane out of the trouble he
caused, right, Ranma?"
   Ah, geez, he though, grousing silently.  I'd forgotten why I
hated it when weird stuff happens around here: the guilt trips.
Soun's half-angry, half-tearful glare; Nabiki's knowing smirk; and
worst of all, Kasumi's understanding smile.  The only thing missing
is Akane's angry ranting.
   "Um," he said, looking around, "Where's Akane?"
   "She's dead," Nabiki said, flatly.
   "Nabiki!"
   "Just kidding, Kasumi."
   "That wasn't very funny."
   "Really?  Personally, I think seeing Ranma go into spastic
shock is _very_ amusing."
   Ranma picked himself off of the floor and levelled a baleful
glare at Nabiki.  "Cute."
   She shrugged, smiled, and pointed upstairs.  "She's in her
room.  Kasumi confined her to bed until she's feeling better.  Why
don't you go say hi?"


   The early-morning construction crew, he noted, had to be
commended on an excellent job.  If you didn't know where to
look, you wouldn't be able to tell that he had blown half the room
away the night before.  The wall was repaired and painted and
looked as good as new -- even the door was back, complete with
yellow duck nameplate.  Ranma gave a soft knock, waited a
moment, then quietly let himself in.
   Much of the internal damage of last night had been cleared
away as well, no doubt owing to Kasumi's supernatural cleaning
abilities.  A few signs remained of last night's struggle -- an oddly
dark, oily stain tainting Akane's shinai; a very slight, acrid taste to
the air that the open window couldn't quite dispel -- but otherwise
Akane's room looked as normal as ever.
   "Oh, thank goodness!" Akane exclaimed as he entered,
sitting upright in bed.  "You came!"
   "Akane!" he said, rushing to her side.
   "You've got to get me out of here!"
   Sudden fear seized Ranma.  Did she sense some imminent
danger, was she somehow attuned to the implied threats of last
night?  He looked around again, this time more attentively, but saw
nothing out of the ordinary.  "What's wrong?" he asked.
   "I'm going insane!  Kasumi's smothering me to death!"
She threw her sheets aside and went to stand.  She was still
dressed in her pyjamas, the yellow ones with the fishcakes.  Ranma
had to admit that, aside from the look of desperate annoyance on
her face, she looked none the worse for wear.  Still, one couldn't
be too careful. . . .
   "Ranma, what do you think you're doing?"
   "Nothing."
   "Will you please stop groping my forehead?"
   "Um, okay?" he answered, and gingerly retrieved his hand
from her wrist-lock.
   "I'm telling you, I'm fine!"
   He shrugged, and took a seat on the floor, and a moment
later she slumped back down onto her bed.  "I dunno, Akane.
You had some pretty nasty shit happen to you last night."
   Akane's face clouded slightly.  "But that's just it.  I don't
remember any of it!  And Dad and Kasumi haven't helped, they've
been really vague.  She's keeping me cooped up in my room, and I
don't even know why!"
   "You don't remember?" he said, surprised.  "Any of it?"
   "No.  But you're going to tell me what happened, right?"
   He paused, though only momentarily.  Should she know?
The events of last night had been strange, even for him, and the
implied threat worrisome -- should she be burdened by these
concerns? Her life was running so smoothly now, and she had so
many normal things to deal with as it was: school, university, moving
on.  She was happy like this, and what right did he have to steal
that pleasure from her?  Why pass the worry on, when he could
shoulder the burden for her?
   Only. . . he didn't like lying to her; and if she was in danger,
she could better defend herself if she was forewarned.  That was
reason enough in itself.
   So he filled her in on what had happened, and if she noticed
his initial hesitation, she didn't comment on it.  As he fleshed out the
story, he saw her eyes slowly light up with recognition -- and muted
horror.  Akane interrupted him as he began to describe how he had
leapt through the barrier.
   "I. . . remember now.  It's hard, but I can if I concentrate.
It's like it was a dream or something.  A bad dream.  But I
remember, I was awake, and frightened, and these. . . things were
grabbing me, and I wanted to throw them off but I couldn't move, I
couldn't move a muscle.  And the voices. . . ."
   "Voices?"
   Akane nodded.  She slipped off her bed and curled up
across from him on the floor, legs drawn up to her chest.  She
peered at him with anxious eyes over her knees.  "I couldn't
understand them, what they were saying.  There were a lot of them.
Whispering, nonstop, filling my head with their sound. . . ."  She
trailed off, then shook her head as if to dispel an errant thought, and
returned her attention to him.  "What happened next?"
   "Not much," he answered.  "I hacked at a few of those
tendrils, and suddenly everything just went away."
   "The book!" Akane suddenly exclaimed, looking around.
"Where is it?"
   Ranma shrugged.  "It's gone.  It disappeared along with
everything else."  He noted the crestfallen look that came over her.
"Hey, what's wrong?  I'd think you'd be happy that that thing was
gone."
   "Yeah, I guess so. . . ."
   He watched her in silence, as she seemed to dwell upon her
disappointment, and wondered why.  Then, as loath as he was to
do so, he realized there was more that had to be said.  "There's
something else, Akane.  After everything was gone, you passed
out.  Something flashed on your forehead -- some kind of symbol
or something."  He smiled slightly as she reached anxiously for her
brow, fingers tentatively extended.  "There's nothing there now.
But some strange guy said that you were in danger."
   She started.  "Danger?"
   "Yeah."  Ranma glanced aside and frowned.  "He wasn't
too specific on the details.  I'm not sure if I even understood him.
Or believed him.  But he said you almost summoned something,
and because of that, things were coming to get you."
   "Things?"  Her voice wavered.  "Like last night?"
   "I don't know.  He just said things were coming."  Ranma
didn't add that Gabriel had also said that they couldn't be stopped.
Because he refused to believe that.  If things really were coming, he
would stop them, no matter what they were.
   Akane slowly digested this, before falling back against her
bed and throwing one arm across her face -- and laughing.  "No
wonder Kasumi's so worried!  Ha, she must have been really
freaked out by everything.  It's been so quiet here lately!  And poor
Dad!"
   "It's not really funny, Akane."
   "Of course it's not," she answered, and leapt to her feet.
She rushed over to her mirror.  She felt and rubbed at the skin of
her forehead.  "A symbol, you say?  Where did it go?"  She
glanced back at him, then back at the mirror.  "Maybe it only glows
when I activate my magical powers, like some kind of magical girl,
right?"  She turned, struck a ludicrous pose, and jabbed a finger at
her fiance.  "Beware, Ranma!" she exclaimed.  "For I am now. . .
Sailor, um. . . Terra!  Fighting for justice and, um, piglets, and really
cute things!"
   "This is serious, Akane," Ranma insisted, getting to his feet.
   She sighed.  "I know, I know.  But what do you want me
to do?  Cry?  Move to Canada?  Some stranger tells you I'm in
danger, and I should put my life on hold?"  She shook her head.
"No way.  Nothing's going to change.  And I'm certainly not going
to stay in my room all day.  I'll keep an eye out for danger -- more
so than normal, that is -- but I've got exams to study for, and stuff
to do."  She levelled a glare at him.  "And you're not going to stop
me!"
   Ranma smiled, and raised his hands placatingly, and
promised that he wouldn't, and thought, you do what you want,
Akane, but I'm not leaving your side until this thing is over.  You
might not take this seriously, but I do -- and nothing's ever going to
hurt you.  Not so long as I live.


   Ranma stepped into the dojo, now dressed in his dogi, and
noted that Akane was ready.  But then, noticing her surprised stare,
he stopped and looked around.
   "What?"
   "Your chest," she said, and pointed.  "Where did that scar
come from?"
   He glanced down and saw that the white line was clearly
visible in the V that his dogi left exposed.  Ranma blushed, but felt
pleased that she had noticed, and then remembered that she
probably hadn't heard about yesterday's fight, either.
   Shrugging, he walked forward to meet her, stripping off his
top as he went.  "I got into a fight yesterday," Ranma began, and
quickly filled her in on the details.  "So he slashed me when I was
down.  Then I rushed here and forced my way through that barrier.
I think it burnt the scar into me before I had time to heal."  He
passed one hand across his chest.  "So, um," he said, suddenly
hesitant, "what do you think?"
   "Not bad," Nabiki said, appearing behind him.
"Impressive enough, and it's got a cool story behind it, so that's
worth something."  She traced the line with one finger, and smiled
as he shivered.  "Not very aesthetic, though.  Doesn't have the
panache of a, Kenshin, say."
   Akane nodded in agreement.  "Or a Kenshiro."
   "Captain Harlock's. . . ."
   "Manji's."
   "Oh, and Sagat!"
   "Why, even Recca's is better," added Kasumi, entering the
dojo.
   "Well I think it looks cool," Ranma retorted, and pouted.
Then he saw what the oldest Tendo sister had cradled in her arms.
"Porker!" he exclaimed, pointing.
   "What?  Where?"  Akane looked.  "P-chan!"
   "I found him wandering around the living room," Kasumi
explained, "so I thought I'd bring him to you.  It has been awhile,
hasn't it?"  She gently scratched the pig beneath the snout and
laughed as it blushed.  But Ranma's transformed rival, and Akane's
occasional pet, kept his eyes fixed on Ranma, and pointed at his
chest with one cloven hoof.  "Bwee?" he asked.
   "It's a scar," explained Akane.  "He lost a fight yesterday."
Then she turned to Ranma.  "See, Ranma?  He cares!  He's
worried about you!"
   "He doesn't sound too worried to me," said Nabiki.
   "Bwee bwee buki bebweeee!" added P-chan, and it
sounded suspiciously like laughter.
   "Shut up!  Who asked you, anyway?  I still look cooler
than all those other guys, anyway."
   "Buki!" disagreed the pig.
   "He has a point," said Akane.  "Grappler Baki's scars are
a lot more impressive than yours."
   "Oh, I can't believe this," muttered Ranma.  "I'm losing an
argument to a pig.  Enough with the scars already!  Are we going to
practice today, or what?"
   "What," said Nabiki.  "Sorry, but Daddy dearest wants to
have a little talk with Akane."
   "Really?"  Akane turned to Ranma.  "Do you mind
waiting?"
   He shrugged.  "Why not.  But could you leave the pig
here?"
   She narrowed her eyes suspiciously at him.  "Why?"
   "Mr. P and I just wanna have words, ain't that right, P?
It's been a while."
   "He better be here when I get back!"
   "Hey, don't worry!  Bacon-breath and I get along great,
don't we, now?"  He pried his finger from between its clenched
jaws and tossed the animal into a wall.  "We'll be fine!"
   A minute later, nursing the bruised cheek Akane's fist had
left, he sat down opposite the grinning pig and pulled out a thermos
of hot water.  He glanced around to make sure there was nobody
watching.  "Alright, Ryoga, we hafta talk."
   The pig gave a small nod, and a moment later, a heavily-
built young man stood in its stead, still wreathed in wisps of steam
as the hot water rolled down his back.  A few years of growth had
made him ever bigger, and Ranma noted the muscles rippling as his
rival pulled on his usual yellow shirt.  But while growth and further
travel had hardened his body, the face remained the same: same
shock of black hair, same bandanna, same haunted, naively
innocent eyes.  "This better be good, Ranma," he said, as he
finished getting dressed.  "It's not you I'm here to see."
   "Yeah, yeah, I know, you're. . . hey, wait a second, you
better not be here for Akane!"
   "And what if I am?" answered Ryoga, indifferently.
   "Aw, geez, c'mon, man, I thought we were past all this
crap!  You've been with Akari for, what, the last year?  Don't tell
me you're _still_ thinking of two-timing her?"
   "I'm not two-timing her!" shouted Ryoga.
   "Then you don't love Akane anymore?"
   "Of course I do!  I swore I'd always love her!  An oath
like that, I don't just forget!"
   "Yeah, sure, whatever," said Ranma.  "Listen, you try
anything with Akane and I'll kick your ass again, just like last time."
   "Is that right?"  Ryoga smirked, but his eyes were serious.
"Just like that?  Who's the one with the scarred chest?  Sounds like
you're the one who's been losing the fights.  A little out of shape,
are we?"
   "Sure.  A little," admitted Ranma.  "But my out-of-shape is
still a hell of a lot better than your top-of-the-line."
   "Is that so?" he replied, inquisitiveness losing to anger.  "Is
that so?  I'll show you, Ranma!  I've been wrestling sumo-pigs for
the last year!  Working hard on the farm!  Training in the furthest
reaches of Hokkaido!"
   "Lost in the furthest reaches of Hokkaido is more like it,"
muttered Ranma beneath his breath, and then, louder, "So you
_did_ come here to fight me, then."
   "No!" shouted the lost boy.  "I came here to admit the truth
of my curse to Akane!"
   "You. . . really?"
   "Yes."  Ryoga suddenly fell quiet, and sat down on the
dojo's floor.  With downcast eyes, he continued.  "Things are really
good between Akari and me, Ranma.  Really good.  I don't want
to lose that.  And yet. . . and yet. . . ."  He looked up, the sudden
image of misery, eyes brimming with tears.  "The love I still feel for
Akane holds me back!  I have to move on, yet I can't forget her
caring smile, her tender arms as she picked me up, that wonderful,
sweet first kiss she lay on my snout. . . ."
   Ranma bopped him over the head.
   "So I need to come clean.  Perhaps once she knows the
truth about me, Akane will push me away.  Maybe she'll hate me.
I don't like to do it, but if so -- then maybe I'll be able to stop
loving her as well."
   "What's this 'as well' crap?" Ranma said.  "Sure,
whatever, Ryoga.  Sounds stupid to me, but if it gets you over
Akane, great.  You've got my blessing."
   "I don't need your blessing!"
   "But I need you to wait."
   "I don't want to. . . what, wait?"  Ryoga eyed him
suspiciously, though, Ranma noticed, with a certain eagerness.
"Why?"
   Perhaps it was the gravity of expression that Ranma took
on, or something in his voice, or maybe even the unconscious way
in which he began to trace the new scar along his chest; but as
Ranma began to explain the events of the previous day, Ryoga
listened without interruption or antagonism.  At the end of the story,
in which Ranma explained the supposed threat to Akane, Ryoga
nodded.
   "What do you want me to do?" he asked, simply.
   "To watch over her.  Protect her if you have to.  Don't get
me wrong," added Ranma, "I'll be doing the same.  But I doubt I
can be with her every minute of every day.  And when I'm not
around to keep her safe, I want somebody who can to be.  You're
not as good as me, of course. . . ."
   "Of course," Ryoga said, and smirked, cracking his
knuckles.
   "But you're the strongest in these parts.  And as P-chan,
you can be with her when I can't."
   "Of course," he said, nodding solemnly.
   "But if I find out you've been peeking on her at night, I'll
jab your eyes out!"
   "I'd like to see you. . . Akane!"  He jumped to his feet,
Ranma slowly joining him, as Akane returned to the dojo.
   "Ryoga!" she exclaimed upon seeing him.  "It's so good to
see you!  It's been too long."
   "I've been very busy on Akari's farm."
   "And, how's. . . hey, wait a second -- Ranma, where's P-
chan?"  A menacing tone entered her voice.
   "He's, ah. . . well, he, that is -- he took off when he saw
Ryoga!  One glance of the guy, and he ran away.  Isn't it strange
the way that happens?  Guess he doesn't like him, must be why
they're never in the same room together."
   Akane still looked suspicious, until Ryoga unexpectedly
added, "It might be the smell of the sumo-pigs on me, Akane.  He's
such a small (but tough, smart, and attractive) pig, that he's
probably got an instinctive fear of them.  I've been working on the
farm so much that the scent tends to cling with me wherever I go."
   "Really?"
   "Really?" mirrored Ranma.  Damn, he thought, that's
good. . . .  'Yo, Ryoga,' he whispered aside.  'Where'd you think that
one up?'
   'I spent the whole trip here working on it.'
   'I thought you came here to come clean.  Why would you
need an excuse?'
   "Shut up, Ranma!"
   "Make me!"
   "Damn straight I will!"
   Ryoga threw the first attack; Ranma blocked and backed
off.  And then they both smiled, and with a battle cry that rang loud
and clear through the Tendo residence, friend and rival found
themselves amidst a flurry of punches and kicks.


   The brief glimpse he had was enough; no, it had been far,
far too much.  The girl's body was mangled, mauled, long jagged
strips of flesh torn away, entrails bulging out through the gaping
flesh.  Blood, far too much of it, sprayed and splattered
everywhere, staining the asphalt and alley walls red and black.
Limbs were snapped backwards like twigs, splintered bones
poking through skin, and the back twisted wrongly in the loose
confines of the shredded school uniform.  Empty eyes stared
blankly at the rising sun, and somehow conveyed final moments
filled with pain and terror.
   The police were doing an excellent job of concealing the
carnage from the public, but they hadn't anticipated observers from
above.  From his perch on the roof, Ranma Saotome pulled back,
turned away, and silently retched.
   It was the crowd that had attracted him, just as it had three
days ago.  People and police, gathered near a narrow alleyway,
slightly off the route between his place and the Tendos'.  Unusual
activity for this part of Nerima: aside for the martial artists, there
were few reasons for law officials to show.  But today they were
out in force: cars, an ambulance, blocking the street, controlling the
crowd, assuming authority of the area.  Curiosity had brought him
closer -- and once there, he had once again encountered
Gosunkugi.
   The thin, awkward student had looked even paler than
usual.  "Don't bother," he had said, trying to push past.  "There's
nothing. . . they've blocked it off. . . you don't want to see."
   "See what?"
   "She's dead," Gosunkugi whispered.  "She's. . . dead."
He had rushed off without another word.
   So Ranma had gone around the side, leapt to the top of the
building, worked his way across the roof and back to the sealed
alleyway.  And saw the body.  The blood, the bone, the look on
her face. . . .  Once his stomach recovered, he huddled up against
the cool metal of a rooftop exhaust fan.  Jets of steam coiled above,
obscuring the dawn, and he closed his eyes against the bloody
image embedded in his mind.
   Who could have done such a thing? he thought, and
immediately realized that it wasn't a 'who,' but a 'what'.  Nobody
human could have done such a thing to that girl.  He had to admit
that there were a few people he knew with the necessary strength:
Ryoga, possibly, Lime of the Musk Dynasty, maybe, and certainly
Tarou in his monster form -- but none of them were this brutal,
none of them were outright killers.  Not of helpless teenage girls.
The person -- the _thing_ that had done this had desecrated the
body with the outright savagery of a wild animal.
   Was this the threat of which that man, that Gabriel, had
warned against?  If so, then why attack this helpless girl?  The
mental image of the girl's body reared up once more, and Ranma
suddenly wondered if this was the fate that awaited Akane.  No
way, he vowed once again, leaping back to the ground and
resuming, at a hurried pace, his way towards the Tendos'.  No way
will that happen to Akane.


   "There were even gouges in the concrete," he said, "and
they didn't look like a weapon made 'em.  It was strong enough to
rip through the wall.  This thing is dangerous, Ryoga, whatever it
was."  Ranma glanced once towards the open door of the dojo,
through which he could see Akane practising her strikes on the
wooden post.  It reassured him that he could see her.  "This thing is
dangerous," he repeated, turning his attention back to his rival, "and
there's no way we can let it get close to Akane."
   Ryoga nodded, once.  He let out a deep, heavy breath.  He
had visibly tightened up during the story's recounting, jaw clenching
tighter, thick cords of his neck tensing, and Ranma wondered how
vividly his friend had imagined the event.  "Is this what you were
afraid of?" he asked.
   "I don't know," answered Ranma.  "I really don't.  Maybe
this was a freaky one-shot kinda thing.  Maybe it has nothing to do
with Akane, or that book, and the shit that went down last week."
   "Maybe."
   "But we're not going to risk it."
   "No."
   "Are you going to tell Akane?"
   "No!" Ranma said abruptly, a little too loudly.  "No," he
repeated, softer this time, and glanced outside.  "Are you crazy?
She doesn't need to know about this."
   "But, Ranma. . . if she's in danger. . . ."
   "She already knows she's in danger.  That's enough.  We
don't even know if this has anything to do with her.  She has
enough to worry about as it is.  You know what Akane's like.  If
she thinks this has some connection to her, she's likely to run off
and try and challenge it to a duel, or something stupid like that.
Well, not this time.  This is serious, and I'm not letting her put
herself in -- A-ha, I have you now, Ryoga!"
   "Huh?" Ryoga said.
   Ranma's strong right cross to the chin dropped him.  "Ha
ha!  That's what you get for dropping your guard!"
   "Ranma," growled Ryoga, climbing to his feet.  "I'll. . . ."
   "Oh, Akane!" the pigtailed boy exclaimed.  "I didn't see
you come in!"
   Akane stood at the threshold of the dojo, dressed in her
dogi, covered in a thin sheen of sweat.  She looked very much
annoyed.  "Ranma, we need to talk."
   He glanced at Ryoga, who stared blankly back.  "Um,
sure, Akane.  Shoot."
   "In private," she said.  "No offense meant, Ryoga."
   The bandanna'd boy shrugged.  "None taken."
   "Don't go anywhere," Ranma said, as Akane grabbed him
by the arm and started to drag him from the dojo.  "And don't get
lost!  I haven't finished kicking your ass yet!"


   Akane's idea of private turned out to be rather different
than Ranma's: a midday stroll through the park.  He felt
uncomfortable having her so in the open.  If anything were to
attack, how could he properly defend her?  The image of the
slaughtered girl from this morning returned.  Unwittingly, he pictured
Akane in that same state -- bloodied, gored --  and his stomach
churned and his blood raced.  One fist clenched at his side and he
again scanned the area.
   "Right, that's it."  Akane's voice, filled with barely
restrained impatience, interrupted his search.  She stepped in front
of him, and glared up at him with angry eyes.  "Will you stop that!"
   "Um. . . what?"
   "Don't 'what' me!  The hovering!  The paranoia!  You're
driving me nuts!"
   "I don't know what you're talking about, Akane," he said,
sounding unconvincing to his own ears.  "I ain't been doing nothing!
I'm not trying to drive you to anything -- I've just been putterin'
around, that's all!"  He tried a hopeful grin.
   Akane released a very deep, very weary sigh.  "Ranma,
I've seen you day and night for the last three days.  I didn't see you
this much when you lived with us."
   "Is it so wrong to want to spend some quality time with my
fiancee?"
   She boggled at him.  "Excuse me?"
   "The pain!" he exclaimed, clutching at his chest
dramatically.  "The distrust!  Here I am, trying to be nice, and. . . ."
   "Oh, shut up," she said, though a hint of a smile appeared.
"You're creeping me out."
   He shrugged and resumed walking, Akane matching his
stride.  "I dunno, Akane, I guess I just felt like hanging out more.
With Ryoga around, too, it's kinda like old times.  I've just been in
a good mood."
   "That's the first true thing you've said today," she
answered.
   "What?"
   She gestured towards a nearby bench, and they took a seat
next to a gently burbling stone fountain.  The sun was high
overhead, but a soft breeze dulled the edge of the day's heat.
Surrounded by the park's un-blossomed sakura trees, happy
shrieks of playful children ringing out, it was easy to believe that
today was nothing more than a perfectly normal day.  Ranma
wanted no more than to forget the scene from this morning.  He
could not let the normalcy stretched before him lull him into a false
sense of security, though -- for Akane's sake.
   "See, you're doing it again!"
   "What?" he said, snapping his gaze back to his fiancee.
   "Watching.  Guarding.  Dammit, relax, we're in the middle
of a park!  It's a beautiful day."
   "I'm sorry.  Fine.  I'll admit it:  I guess I'm a little worried
about what that guy said.  Is that so wrong?"
   She sighed.  "You know, it wouldn't be so annoying if you
weren't so obviously enjoying yourself."
   Ranma started.  Enjoying himself?  Here he was, in a near
paranoiac panic over her possible well-being, constantly on edge
watching out for her safety, and she thought he was -enjoying- it?
"That's the stupidest. . . ."
   "Ranma," she interrupted, "you've been a nearly
insufferable jerk for the last six months.  You've been grouchy, and
short-tempered, and sulky. . . ."
   "Hey!"
   "You've been annoying and distant and cranky. . . ."
   "Have not!"
   "Have so," she insisted.
   "Yeah, well, you've been, um, an uncute tomboy, yeah."
   She snorted.  "Whatever."
   Ranma jumped to his feet, suddenly caught between anger,
insult, and protectiveness.  He glared at her, tried to think of
suitable insults, and came up blank.  He wanted to turn his back on
her and walk away, but couldn't risk leaving her alone.  He took a
step, spun in place once, opened his mouth, closed it, and finally sat
down again in a huff.
   "That was interesting."
   "Shut up."
   "You know I'm right."
   "Believe me, I am _not_ enjoying myself right now."
   "Sure.  Ranma, you've been walking around with this -- I
don't know, sulking maybe? -- look on your face for months now.
We've barely talked.  And when you did, it was barely civil.
Nothing rude, but like nothing anyone said was of any interest."
   "Hey, I'm not the only one who's been distant, you know,"
he retorted.  "It's not like you've been all that available.  You've
been studying non-stop.  You never have time for anything else
anymore."
   "Ranma, we're graduating in a few months!  What do you
expect?  I want to get into a good university."
   No, Akane, he thought, a great university.  Which is what
you deserve: something better than the crap school I'll be going to,
right?  Yet somehow his own thought felt devoid of bitterness.  He
wondered why.  Then he wondered why he should feel angry in the
first place.  Why should it matter where Akane went?
   "But that's beside the point," Akane continued.  "What I've
been trying to say is that you've changed this last week."
   "I've got no idea what you're talkin' about."
   Akane sighed and rolled exasperated eyes to the sky.  He
looked at her, smiled, and offered a helpless shrug.  "Sorry."
   For a moment it looked like she had something more to
add.  She held his gaze, searchingly, contemplatively, before
returning a small smile.  "Oh, forget it.  Let's just go home before
you sprain your neck scanning the bushes for assassins."
   "Okay!" he answered happily, springing to his feet.
   "And wipe that smile off your face!"


   It took them over an hour to return home, but as they
approached the Tendo residence, Ranma Saotome found that a
genuine smile had somehow made its way onto his face.  The day
had started well, with the four AM sparring session with his father;
but the scene he had stumbled across while returning to the
Tendos' had shattered the peace that practice brought.  Then more
training, an equally satisfying fight with Ryoga, and then. . . .
   An afternoon with Akane.
   He considered her words as they walked side-by-side
along the canal.  Had he really changed in the last week?  Had he
really been that insufferable prior to that?  Surely not as bad as
Akane suggested, but perhaps there was a certain truth to her
exaggeration.  But then, he thought, should even that be of any
surprise?
   Everything had changed so quickly after the last visit to
China.  After Saffron.  After Akane had almost. . . .  Or perhaps
the changes had not been so quick, but drawn out, for the last six
months, in retrospect, had felt long and dreary and empty.  Or
maybe the changes had been immediate and too consequential to
be understood at that time, and in these final months an
understanding of some kind had been achieved.  Or maybe. . . .
   Maybe I'm thinkin' about this too much, Ranma told
himself, and grinned.  He looked up at Akane, and she glanced
down, and his own smile slipped slightly.  Great afternoon, he
thought -- too bad I'm currently a girl, though.  He hated the loss in
height his transformation wrought; he had never noticed how people
respond to differences in height until he lost his own.  Even being a
few centimetres shorter made a huge difference when you're used
to looking down at people.
   "Hey, it's your own fault," she said, somehow reading his
thoughts.  "You didn't have to turn girl."
   "Aw, c'mon, Akane.  Real guys don't do print club!"
   "Whatever," she replied, smiling at his posture but
obviously unsympathetic.
   A walk through the park.  A quick stop for a few chili
burgers at a convenient Mos Burger, and a drink at the kissaten
next to it.  Then, at Akane's insistence and to the detriment of
Ranma's wallet, a few rounds of print-club.  He pulled the sheet of
picture-stickers out and had to admit, despite himself, that they
were worth the discomfort.  Various poses, him and Akane side by
side, smiling and blinking and making funny faces and peering
through the different cutesy frames she had chosen.  One in
particular he liked: the last one taken in a sequence of shots, when
they had thought the session over.  He was staring at the camera,
looking slightly confused, his feminine brow furrowed with
perplexity; but Akane was looking at him, face in profile, cute
upturn of the nose highlighted, and in her eye was an enigmatic glint
that offset the slight smile of her lips.  She somehow looked both
serious yet pleased, and the ambiguous nature of her expression
intrigued him.
   Taking advantage of a momentary distraction on Akane's
part, he peeled the sticker off and stuck it to the inside of his wallet,
then pocketed the sheet of images.  They were nice, he was glad
that he had agreed to do them, even if as a woman; and as he
walked alongside his fiancee he reflected on how relaxed and
enjoyable the last few hours had been. . .
   . . . and then they turned the corner, and the sense of
security he had lulled himself into shattered with all the shock and
disjointedness of a dream abruptly ended.


   The concrete walls were shattered in places, great gouges
ripped out in others.  Asphalt was torn up, cracked and cratered.
One tree was splintered into shards; another cleanly cloven in two.
An intense battle had been fought here, and recently: Akane had
seen enough fights in recent years, many within this very district, to
recognize the signs.  Not that anyone short of a blind man would
mistake the carnage for anything else, but among the wreckage she
recognized hints as to who had been involved.  Long, strangely
ringed furrows torn into a wall here, the ground there: bonbori
marks: Shampoo.  A half-dozen knives imbedded in a mailbox, a
giant mace discarded by the street, yo-yos entangling a stone
lantern: Mousse.
   She barely had time to register the scene in front of her
before Ranma grabbed her in a firm grip by the arm and pulled her
forward.  He didn't say anything but kept her close, eyes suddenly
intensely sharp.  She could almost _feel_ his awareness stretching
out as he absorbed details.
   What happened? Akane almost asked, yet bit back the
question upon seeing the expression of utmost seriousness etched
into his features.  It looked like nothing more than another fight, a
not uncommon occurrence in Nerima despite the recent lull.  So
maybe the Chinese contingent of the local chaos had gotten
themselves into trouble again: why was Ranma getting so intense?
   "Ranma," she started to say, but then he was yanking her
forward, towards a small house whose front wall had been
smashed to pieces.
   "Shit!" he exclaimed.  "This way!"
   Only then, following in his wake, did she spot the spattering
of blood.
   Across a small blasted yard, clods of earth and grass
scattered everywhere.  Stepping across the broken wood and
plaster, shattered glass, wrecked furniture, and a single forlorn pink
flamingo, into someone's unfortunate house, and then:
   Shampoo, lying face up on the ground, broken shaft of
bonbori next to her, the tattered remains of a red dress barely
clinging to her supine form.  Red, or another colour stained so, for
Akane then noticed the terrible abdominal gash to which Shampoo
clutched her hands.  One eye was blackened and swelled shut, and
blood trickled from the corner of the Chinese girl's lips.  Her head
lolled to one side in near-unconsciousness.
   Mousse, kneeling next to her.  Robes in tatters, upper-body
bare and bruised and lacerated.  His blind gaze held equal parts
desperation and determination as he cradled Shampoo's head in his
arms and sought to keep her awake.  Then the crunch of glass
under her foot, and the Chinese boy's eyes snapped up, one hand
reaching towards his concealed leg.
   "Easy, Mousse," said Ranma, stepping closer.  "It's us."
   "Ranma?"  The wounded boy reoriented towards the voice.
   "And me," Akane offered.
   Ranma crouched next to his two Chinese friends.  "What
the hell happened here?  Who did this?"
   "There's no time," Mousse answered, and shook his head.
"You have to hurry.  The thing -- the thing that did this; Ryoga's still
fighting it."  He pointed towards deeper into the house, at a path of
wrecked walls and furniture.  "He showed up just in time.  He led it
away.  But he won't -- he can't last long against that thing."
   Akane watched as Ranma regained his feet.  He looked
down at Mousse and Shampoo, then, to her surprise, at her.
Sudden fierce indecision warred across the feminine features of his
face, before resolving into resignation.  "You going to be okay?" he
asked.
   Mousse nodded.  "I'm fine.  But I won't leave Shampoo
here alone.  I won't let her slip into unconsciousness."
   "Fine."
   Ranma turned back to Akane, grabbed her by the arm
again.  "C'mon, Akane, you're staying with me.  We can't let this
thing get away."  Before she could say anything, agree, refuse, he
was rushing forward, following the trail of wreckage that his rival
had pointed out and pulling her along.
   Behind them, Mousse's angry voice called out: "Ranma!
For Shampoo!  Kill it!"


   The path was a disturbingly easy one to follow, Ranma
noted.  Out the back of the house, across the back lot, through a
stone wall, back into the street: everywhere, displays of intense
battle, the wrecked signs of Ryoga and his opponent's passage.
The lost boy had to be moving fast, and had quickly covered a lot
of terrain.  That's strange, Ranma thought, that's not Ryoga's usual
way of fighting.  He's more of a 'stand-and-pummel' fighter.
Why's he drawing it so far away?
   As he hurried along the trail, he spared a glance at Akane.
He hated to bring her with him into potential danger.  There was
little doubt in his mind that this was probably in some way related to
her, to what that strange man had warned of.  But he could not risk
leaving her behind.  What if this mysterious attacker doubled back?
Neither Shampoo nor Mousse were in any condition to defend her,
and if they had both fallen before their attacker, then Akane
wouldn't stand a chance.  No, her best chance lay with him:
whatever it was, there was no way it was going to get past him.
   Down the street, through a park, over felled telephone
poles.  A sudden explosion nearby, and dirt and debris fountained
ahead.
   "That's Ryoga!" Akane exclaimed.
   Without replying he gathered her into his arms, ignoring her
indignant squawk, and leapt for the site of the blast.  Only when
Akane gripped him tighter, pressing herself into his breasts, did he
remember his current form.  He almost cursed aloud.  Something
like this, he wanted to tackle as a man.  But there was no time. . . .
   He softly landed to surprising quiet.  Immediately absorbed
the scenario.  Registered no signs of an enemy.  Saw Ryoga's form
lying face down at the edge of the street.  An unknown girl knelt
next to him.
   "Ryoga!  Oh no, Ryoga!"  Akane, shrugging free of his
hold, rushed towards her fallen friend.
   "Akane, wait!" Ranma yelled, but she ignored him.  He
followed after her, senses reaching out, and felt nothing.  No threat.
Nothing.
   The girl at Ryoga's side looked up with imploring, tear-
streaked eyes at their approach.  Ranma did not recognize her.
She was slightly taller than his female form, with hair in a style
similar to Akane's.  Her clothes were frayed and dirt-stained, and
she bore numerous minor scratches, but looked otherwise none the
worse for wear.  "You have to help him," she said, swallowing
down a sob.  "You have to -- he saved my life -- oh, please, help
him!"
   Ranma knelt next to his friend and rival.  He looked even
worse off than Shampoo and Mousse had.  His clothes were a
wreck, his back a mass of bruises and deep gashes.  A thick,
chitinous barb of some kind was impaled in his thigh.  His thick
mass of unruly hair clung slickly to his scalp, near his temple, and
Ranma knew it wasn't from sweat.
   "Oh, shit," Ranma muttered.  "Shit, Ryoga, are you. . . ?"
He reached out with one tentative hand.
   One strong arm slammed down, and, groaning, the lost boy
pushed himself up onto his side.  Shreds of his yellow shirt hung
loosely from his neck, and large welts decorated his chest.  His
head drew up and slowly focussed on his rescuers.  Ryoga's face
was a mess, one eye swelled shut, nose flattened, blood seeping
from a cut across his brow.  Akane gasped at the sight.  Something
akin to a smile peeked through the boy's swollen cheek and
blackened lips.  "Ranma. . . glad you could make it."
   "Ryoga. . . what the hell. . . ?"
   "I almost got it," he said.  "Almost."
   Akane helped Ryoga into a sitting position, wincing as he
gasped in pain.  His other arm hung limply, and Ranma guessed it
was dislocated at the shoulder.  He had never seen Ryoga in such
bad shape.  The guy was a tank.  He didn't go down easy.  And
judging from the recent sparring, he was far tougher than before.
   Ryoga turned his good eye onto Ranma.  "You've got to go
after it, Ranma."
   "What?"
   "It escaped."  He pointed.  "That way."  Crack in the
street, result of the final blasting point technique.  "It's wounded.
You have to finish it off."
   "But. . . you're. . . ."
   "Dammit, Ranma!"  With his only working hand, he
grabbed the pigtailed boy by the collar and pulled him down.  "That
thing's not after Akane!" he hissed.  "It was after the girl.  This girl -- the other girls!  This has nothing to do with Akane!"
   Ranma stood, his friend's hand falling limply away.  He
looked towards the hole in the ground.  It probably led into the
sewers.  He wondered what kind of shape the creature was in.
Was it strong enough to. . . .
   "No, please, don't go -- don't go!"  It was the girl, the
unknown one that Ryoga had defended, suddenly speaking, her
voice shrill.  "Don't leave me alone!  What if it comes back?"
   What if it came back?  How far had it gone?  Was it
determined enough to return and try again?  Even if it wasn't after
Akane, if she stayed behind, and it returned, she would try to fight it
--even after tackling Ryoga, he suspected it was still tougher than
her.  What if it doubled back and he was searching for it
underground and he wasn't here to stop it when it attacked and it
finished off what it had started?  His indecision was brief.  No way
he could risk leaving Akane behind, but he wouldn't bring her into
the sewers with him.  He shook his head.
   "No," he said.  "I'll get it next time."
   Ryoga glared at him.  "Dammit, Ranma, no!  You have to. . . ."
   "I have to get you to a hospital!  Have to get Mousse and
Shampoo help!"
   "Ranma. . . ," growled his rival, struggling to stand, anger
and frustration flushing his injured face an ugly red.  "Fine, then.  I'll
finish it off myself."
   But Ranma pushed him back down, easily, and grinned.
"Sorry, man.  Can't let you chase that thing into that _cold_, _wet_
sewer.  Besides," and his voice darkened, and his face turned
serious and mean, "It's only a delay.  Don't get me wrong.  I'm
going to hunt that thing down.  I'm going to find it.  And I'm going
to finish what you started."
   The image from this morning reared its head: bloodied,
savaged corpse; torn concrete and ground.  No way that's going to
happen, he told himself.  Not to Akane, not to any other girls.  It
may have been able to defeat Shampoo and Mousse.  Even Ryoga.
Maybe it would even have time to heal.  But you haven't met
Ranma Saotome yet, you bastard, he swore, and you'll regret the
day you do.


   Only later in the evening was he able to draw together the
separate threads of the afternoon and draw a coherent image of
what had happened.  A call by Akane had confirmed that, before
the arrival of the authorities, Mousse had carried Shampoo back to
the Nekohanten, where Cologne was tending to them.  Ryoga,
vehemently refusing to be brought to the hospital, was recuperating
on Akane's bed; Ranma had to admire the guy's resilience.  The
girl introduced herself as Akako Nishin, and at Akane's insistence,
was recovering from her ordeal at the Tendos' with a cup of
Kasumi's most relaxing tea in hand.  Akako spent most of her time
at Ryoga's side, concerned for the man who had saved her life.
Apparently, the worst of the wounds on his back had happened
when he shielded her from one of her attacker's more dangerous
strikes.
   "I don't know where it came from!" she had said.  "It just
attacked out of nowhere and tried to carry me off!"
   Luckily for her, Shampoo and Mousse had been making a
late-afternoon ramen delivery.  And lucky for them that Ryoga had
taken a wrong turn on the way to the bathroom and ended up
where he was most needed.  He had not yet had a chance to speak
at length with Mousse over the incident, but Ryoga's broken telling
proved enough.
   "It's got a bunch of those lining the back of one of its
arms," Ryoga had said, pale-faced and gasping for breath,
gesturing at the thirty-centimetre barb they had just pulled from his
leg.  Slowly a description emerged, of a lanky humanoid creature
slightly shorter than Ryoga, stoop-backed and green-skinned.
Long gangly arms lashed out with stunning speed and strength.  "I
didn't get a really good look at it," Ryoga admitted.  "And I don't
think Shampoo or Mousse did, either.  We were too busy fighting
for our lives."  Then he had levelled a very serious look at his
friend.  "If you find this thing, Ranma, don't underestimate it.  It's
fast, and tough, and strong -- and you're not exactly in top shape
right now, either."
   No, maybe not, Ranma agreed, now sitting alone on the
roof of the Tendo household, deep in thought.  But I'm getting
there.  Morning sparring with his father, and training with Ryoga
over the last few days, had done a world of good.  Only now could
he recognize how much he had let himself slip in the last six months;
the fight against Karadoku had proven that.  He absently rubbed at
the scar beneath his shirt.  Then again, that hadn't been an
important fight; or maybe he had underestimated the seriousness of
the conflict, but it nevertheless paled in comparison to this thing
now stalking the streets of Nerima.  He took small comfort that it
apparently wasn't searching for Akane.  But why the other girl?
   He glanced down at the newspaper in his lap, and his
expression turned grim.  In the fading light of sunset, he could
hardly make out the words; he didn't have to: the front page
headline reported the death of the girl he had seen that morning.
Her name had been Momoko Ikura, a first year student from
Furinkan.  A girl from his own school.  A friend of Akane's.  The
article linked her death to a similar killing three days prior: the other
police scene he had stumbled across.  And another, yesterday, that
he had not known about.  Three girls killed within the space of a
few days.  The papers suggested it was the work of a particularly
savage serial killer, though the single picture the press had acquired
and the subdued descriptions written concealed the full violence of
their deaths.  Ranma knew better.  A killer, certainly, but not
human.
   The horizon flared a final time in crimson hues as the sun
slid from sight.  Soon night would fall fully.  Something had drawn
the creature out into the light of day, despite its seeming tendency to
strike at night.  Ranma wondered: even wounded, will this thing try
again, tonight?
   "Not if I have anything to say about it," he said.  With
Akane safe here, I'm free to head out.  I don't know how, but I'll
find this thing, and put an end to its killing.


   When Ranma returned inside, he was surprised to find an
assembly waiting for him: Akane, their fathers, her sisters, and,
more surprisingly, Ukyou as well.
   "Hey, Ranchan, what's up?" she said, though the gravity of
her expression belied her casual words.  Ukyou, too, had
developed well in the last few years.  Her masculine clothing ill-
concealed her full womanhood, and even at school, now, she rarely
bothered with the boys' uniform -- although she still refused to
wear the girls'.  She had grown in height, too, standing a few
centimetres taller than he did even in his male form -- and she took
great fun in teasing him about it.  The tension that had lain between
them in the immediate aftermath of the failed wedding had not
lasted long: their friendship reached too far back, and he found it
difficult to remain truly angry with anyone, let alone her.
   Today, she was dressed for combat.  Full bandoleer of
spatulas, with the massive version strapped to her back.  She
noticed his acknowledgment of her weapons, and pointed at the
newspaper rolled in his grasp.  "A girl can't be too careful.  The
TV's calling for people to stay in tonight, especially women.
People are getting scared.  They say there's some psycho going
about.
   "Then Akane called me. . . ."
   "I thought it might be safer for her here," Akane offered.
   "It's not just some weirdo, is it?" Ukyou asked.
   He shook his head.
   "You going after it?"
   Ranma nodded.
   "I want in," she said.
   He was about to vigorously refuse and insist that he had to
do this on his own, when he realized he could use her help after all.
He didn't like to bring his friend into possible danger, but saw no
other way.  This thing was apparently after that girl, Akako, now.
Or so he hoped.  For he could see no other way to draw the
creature out.  But if they went out tonight, perhaps she would be
enough to lure the killer into the open.  Then Ukyou could
immediately take the girl to safety. . . and leave the monster to him.
   He didn't like the plan.  He didn't want to put Ukyou, or
this helpless girl, at risk.  But what other choice did he have?
"Thank you," he answered, and saw the surprise in her eyes when
he agreed.  "I have a plan, and I need your help."  He quickly
explained.
   Ukyou nodded.  "You can count on me."
   "But as soon as that thing shows -- if it shows -- you're out
of there.  You grab Akako and you run, and leave the fight to me."
   "And if it doesn't show up?"  His father, this time.  Akane
had called him and his mother as well; Nodoka was currently with
Kasumi in the kitchen.
   "Then we do it again tomorrow night.  We do it again and
again and again until we find this thing."
   Genma nodded approvingly, as did Mr. Tendo.  Ukyou
loosened her mega-spatula and brought it to bear.  Akako gave a
very nervous acquiescence.  And then Akane stepped forward, and
before she could even open her mouth, Ranma gave the vehement
refusal he had meant for Ukyou.
   "No, Akane!  You are _not_ coming!"
   "You can't tell me what to do," she answered, face flushing
with anger.  "I want to help too!  Ukyou can, but I can't?"
   I should have seen this coming, he berated himself.  Of
course she would want to help.  But this isn't her fight.  I want her
here.  Because if this isn't the danger that Gabriel warned of, I want
her safe; and if it is, I don't want her anywhere near it.  But how to
explain this to her?  How to tell her this is out of her league?
   Fortunately, he was saved that tricky piece of diplomacy by
the timely intervention of her father.  "No, Akane.  I will not have
one of my daughters running around at night when a psychotic
monster is on the loose."
   "But. . . Dad!  It's my duty as a martial artist. . . ."
   "To protect your home as well.  And to listen to your
father.  And your father is telling you that you are _not_ going out
tonight."  It was rare that the normally passive Soun Tendo
revealed the steel core that had enabled him to survive Happosai's
tutelage.  But it most certainly is there, Ranma admitted, the old
guy's got a tough edge to him, when he wants to.  I guess you don't
get to become a master of Anything Goes without it; and nothing
brought out the steel in Mr. Tendo like a threat to his daughter.
   Surprisingly, Akane gave in.  A half-dozen insults and
arguments died on his lips as he watched her frown, then nod and
step back.  The expression on her face left him feeling. . . worried?
Not that she might sneak after them despite her submission;
perhaps it was the ease with which she had backed down that
concerned him, or the enigmatic look she revealed before hiding it
beneath a thin-lipped frown.  Then he pushed the thought aside.
Right now, he had a monster to catch.
   "Alright then," he said.  "Everybody ready?"


   It took nearly a half-hour for them to actually leave.  Ukyou
had a phone call to make to Konatsu. Akako suddenly realized that
she ought to call her parents as well; it turned out they were
frantically worried about her, and gave her a very thorough, very
long berating over the phone.  Ranma gave his farewells to the
recovering Ryoga, and asked for any last suggestions.
   "Hit it hard," the wounded boy had offered.  "Again and
again and again until it stops moving."
   Most of all, he wanted to say goodbye to Akane, to maybe
apologize for not bringing her, or to explain why he couldn't, at the
very least; but she seemed to be avoiding him, always leaving a
room just as he was entering.
   Now, Ukyou and Akako and he walked the streets in a
haphazard pattern, loosely working their way towards the site of
the battle earlier today.  They moved stealthily, for the police were
out, patrolling the streets, and explaining why they were walking the
streets themselves could prove difficult.  The night was unusually
dark and overcast, which helped, the few streetlights lining the back
roads casting pale light pooling feebly near houses and in street
corners.  A strong wind was picking up, blowing detritus in
billowing patterns across their path.  The air was heavy, and Ranma
suspected rain, if not a stronger storm, was coming.  He offered a
silent prayer that the rain would hold off.  He needed to remain a
man for tonight.
   At first, Ukyou tried to alleviate the oppressive silence that
had settled upon the trio, but her words went unanswered, or
sounded shrill against the quiet of the night.  The gravity of the
situation soon silenced her.  Perhaps she realizes, Ranma thought,
that now isn't the best time for the 'cute-fiancee' angle.  Not when
hunting for a monster that had already torn apart three helpless girls.
That had fought off three of the best martial artists in Nerima.
   But not _the_ best, Ranma added.
   They continued to walk, the infrequent random sounds of a
suburb at night -- the bark of a dog, the laughter of a television
comedy turned up too loud, the passing of a car one street over -- the only interruption to their silence.  Yet worry began to settle in as
they moved on, past the scene of today's conflict, past the locations
of the earlier killings he had either seen or read of.  Worry that the
creature wouldn't show.
   He paused in his steps as he considered it further.  Maybe
their enemy was far too wounded to make another attempt tonight,
he thought.  Or maybe it's too far away, too far to pick up
Akako's trail.  It could be on the other side of Tokyo, for all we
know, killing someone else while we're wandering around Nerima.
Only the realization that the other three killings, and the battle
today, had been in relatively close proximity to each other, worked
to subdue his growing sense of frustration.  But, then. . . what?
How were they going to find this thing?  Maybe it. . . .
   Ranma glanced up, at the figures of Ukyou and Akako
ahead of him.  He blinked, momentarily confused.  For a second. . . .  Ukyou, walking, long hair swaying in gentle counterpoint to her
steps, her combat spatula resting easily over one shoulder.  Akako
walking next to her, wearing some borrowed clothes of Akane's
that fit her perfectly; and briefly, he'd thought it had been his fiancee
there ahead of him.  The resemblance was minimal, but certainly
there: and suddenly he thought he understood, and his heart
skipped a beat and dread gripped him.  For a moment he was at a
lost, unsure of what to do.
   Ukyou turned back and, called out inquisitively from the
dark.  "Hey, Ranchan, you coming?"
   Her voice broke his indecision.  Without further hesitation
he ran forward.  "Ukyou -- we're doing this all wrong.  We're. . .
it's not here.  It won't show.  I think.  I have to make sure."
   "What?"
   "There's no time.  Take Akako home, I'm sure she's safe,
and she'll be safer at home than with us, anyway.  This isn't any
place for non-martial artists.  Take her home, Ukyou, than go back
to the Tendos; go back as fast as you can!"
   "But, Ranchan!  Ranchan, what's. . . ."
   "Just do it, dammit!" he yelled back, already halfway down
the street, speeding up.  "Go!"
   Without another glance back he leapt away, over the
houses, sure of his destination and afraid that his sudden suspicion
would prove correct.


   Oh, please be home, Ranma whispered to himself, banging on the
door, please answer.
   And he did, and Ranma let out a deep sigh of relief, much
to Gosunkugi's surprise.  Ranma imagined that the pale-faced
young man must be quite shocked to see him, indeed: the martial
artist did not make it a frequent point to visit.
   "Ranma?" Gosunkugi asked, and gaped.
   The pigtailed teenager realized he must present quite the
sight, sweaty, breathing hard, and probably looking both desperate
and half-panicked.  Which was close to how he felt.  He had
crossed the Nerima rooftop highway at top speed, and made it
here in record time.
   "Yeah," Ranma gasped.  "Yeah.  Let me in, I gotta. . . ."
   Gosunkugi let the door swing open, obviously confused but
not about to try and stop a desperate-looking Saotome.  "What's
wrong?  What. . . come in, what can I. . . ."
   Ranma stepped into the house, looking around but not
really caring about the background to his creepy schoolmate's life.
He focussed on the boy.  "Pictures," he said.  "I've gotta see your
pictures."
   If possible, Gosunkugi turned even paler.  "Um, my
pictures?  Why?  I didn't think you'd be interested."
   "I wasn't.  But you took them early in the morning, right?
And you were at both scenes I was at.  How early do you go out
for your pictures, Gosunkugi?  How early did you get to those
scenes?"
   The scrawny photographer tried a feeble grin.  "I don't
know what you're. . . ."
   "Dammit, Gosunkugi!  I don't give a shit what kinda creepy
hobbies you've got, or why you take pictures of dead girls.  I don't
_care_!  But Akane's life might be in danger, and. . . ."
   And that was all it took.  The nervousness and hesitation
lifted from Gosunkugi's body, and without another word he led
Ranma upstairs.  "This is my studio," he explained, as they entered
a large, cluttered room.  There was a bed and dressers and the
normal accoutrements of a bedroom, but it was the walls that
immediately seized one's eye: they were plastered with images and
photographs, and among them Ranma recognized a number of
Akane.  The majority of them, however, were of other people, in
innumerable random poses, seemingly unaware that they were
being photographed.
   Then a folder was shoved into his face, snapping his
attention away from the photographs and back to the
photographer.  "These are the pictures I've taken," Gosunkugi said,
pulling sheets of images and scattering them across his bed.  "I only
made it to the same two places you did.  I normally head out at four
AM, and from what I've seen and read, the girls were killed around
that time.
   "Total luck, really, that I made it there before the police
did."  He paused as if in thought.  "Also luck that I didn't get there
when whoever did this was still around, I guess."
   Ranma was hardly listening, rifling through the images.  He
pulled a picture of the slaughtered girl he had seen that morning.
Found another similar to the picture he had seen in the newspaper,
but in colour, and closer up.
   "That's one of the ones I sold to the newspaper,"
Gosunkugi offered, voice tinted with pride.  "But they went for the
print that showed less blood."
   Ranma held the pictures side-by-side, of the two different
girls.  He conjured up a mental image of Akako, as he had seen her
this evening.  And there it was.  Hardly noticeable, but certainly
there, if you knew where to look.  The resemblance.  Not to each
other.
   To Akane.
   "It's not after Akako at all," he whispered.  "It's after
Akane.  It's always been Akane. . . ."
   Gosunkugi started.  "What?  What kind of danger is she
in?"
   But Ranma was already gone.


   Who knows how this thing tracks? Ranma thought, as he flew
across rooftops back towards the Tendo residence.  Who knows
what impression they got of her when that book tried to suck her in,
or whatever it was trying to do.  Gabriel said things were coming
for her; but how would they know where to find her?
   He hardly noticed as, without fanfare, the night sky
overhead opened up and a gentle rain began to fall.  There was no
time to acknowledge his own change as he raced back to his
fiancee.  Dammit, he cursed, why did Gosunkugi have to live so far;
why couldn't I have seen it earlier?  I shouldn't have left her alone!
   Maybe, wrapped in the book's embrace, whatever force
that had driven the cursed text had received some mental image of
its prey: an image of Akane, incomplete, perhaps, but enough to
begin a hunt.  But being incomplete, the thing that had attacked
Akako this morning, and been driven off by his friends, had been
attacking the wrong targets.  All girls, and all of them bearing a
slight resemblance to Akane.  Not just physically, though: the other
girl had died while wearing the Furinkan girl's school uniform, and
had probably met his fiancee more than once.  Perhaps it had some
kind of mental imprint of Akane as well -- vague impressions of the
girl, of her clothes, of what she liked.
   It doesn't matter, Ranma scowled, whatever trick it used,
it's still after Akane, and I'm not there to protect her.  Hell, maybe
it hunts by scent, even -- and after fighting Ryoga, it has a solid trail
straight back to Akane.  After all the time Ryoga's been spending
with her, no one else could offer a clearer lead to its target.  He
leapt from a rooftop back onto the streets, nearly two-thirds of the
way to the Tendos', and continued to hurry along the ground,
desperate race kicking up a spray of water behind him.
   So preoccupied was he on getting back that he didn't
notice the attack until it was far too late.


   The assembled household started at the sound of the door sliding
shut, and turned to watch as Ukyou came in out of the rain.  Even
Ryoga had made his way downstairs, still obviously in pain but able
to move -- albeit slowly -- on his own.  They all sat surrounded by
the oppressive air of ineffectual waiting.
   "I'm back!" Ukyou announced, flicking water from her
hair.
   "Where's my son?" asked Nodoka, concerned.
   "I don't know.  He ran off, yelling at me to bring Akako
home, and to get back here."  She loosened her weapon and knelt
next to the table, gratefully accepting the cup of hot tea Kasumi
offered her.  "Anybody know what's up?"
   Nobody did, and Ukyou shrugged.  "Well, I'm sure
Ranchan knows what he's doing."
   "But. . . ," Ranma's mother continued, and bit her lower lip.
"But now he's alone."
   "Maybe," Ukyou said, and grinned.  "Maybe not.  But he
can take care of himself.  Your son's a tough boy, Ms. Saotome."
   "But he's not a boy anymore," she said, and gestured
towards the increasingly strong rain.  "Now he's my daughter. . .
and that thing, it likes girls, doesn't it?"  Eyes wide with concern
gazed outside.  "Tonight's no night for a young girl to be outside
alone -- and my daughter. . . she's all alone, isn't she?"



   Sudden pain lanced through his side, followed by a numbing blow
that halted his forward run and sent him crashing into a wall.  The
stone shuddered under the impact, then crumbled beneath him, and
he slumped to the slick asphalt stunned.  Ranma Saotome stared
through the falling rain at the thing that had attacked him.  Man, I'm
gonna have to give Ryoga shit, he thought dazedly.  Pig-boy's
description was _way_ off.
   It approached slowly, ponderous steps that vibrated the
earth and reached up through the rubble in which Ranma lay.  It
stood maybe two metres tall despite a slight stoop, thick of body
and limb.  Thick, puckered brownish skin glistened in the faint light,
rainwater running along the thousands of crevice-like folds
crisscrossing its flesh.  Long, straggly black hair hung in oily locks
down its chest and back.  With its great size it covered the distance
between them quickly, stepping through the ever-strengthening rain.
The first attack had come from the left arm, abnormally long and
disproportionately  scrawny; with each step, the long claws of each
finger scraped along the street, and Ranma saw his own blood
glisten there.  In comparison, the other arm was short and stocky,
muscular, with thick stubby fingers.  One blow from that massive
fist had sent him sprawling a half-dozen metres, to where he now
lay.
   Ranma struggled to his feet.  Sharp-edged rubble dug into
his palm as he lifted himself up, and he used the pain to dispel the
last of his stupor.  One hand clutched his lacerated side.  His ribs
burnt, wet with blood.  Not good, he thought.  Bad way to start a
fight.
   It stopped a few metres away and seemed to study him.
Large, dark eyes set too far apart squinted from above a wide, ugly
slash of a mouth.
   "You want some?" Ranma yelled at it.  "Huh?  C'mon!
Now it's my turn, you ugly piece of shit!"
   It cocked its head, as if in contemplation, long clawed
fingers curling and uncurling.
   "You ain't gonna get her, you hear me?  You ain't never
gonna touch her!"
   It took a single step forward; he stepped back, finding
awkward footing amidst the remnants of the wall behind him.  In
that brief moment with the least purchase, the thing rushed forward.
   Ranma threw himself to one side, and his foe smashed into
the concrete wall.  The young martial artist landed roughly on slick
grass, shoulder taking the impact, then he twisted and regained his
feet.  Just in time to meet the next charge.  A quick sidestep, its side
briefly exposed, and Ranma countered.  A half-dozen punches
smashing into its ribs; quick dodge as it twisted around, massive fist
swiping through the air; back in, flurry of strikes thudding against its
hide.  The second arm swept down, this one quicker, and he leapt
back.  Its sharp claws tore a triple row of long, narrow furrows in
the wet earth.
   I can win this, Ranma thought, dancing back to give himself
some room.  Red bangs clung to his face, his clothes hung heavy
with water.  Rain dripped into his eyes and he blinked and breathed
heavily against the pain in his side.  It's fast, but I'm faster.
   Suddenly it surged out of the darkness and rain, charging
him quicker than before.  He flipped back, onto the road; landing,
he leapt forward; met its charge with his own, slipping beneath its
reaching grasp and slamming a dozen more punches into its
stomach.  Stepping past he twisted and attacked its exposed back.
   Too late he saw the thin, whip-like tail, coiled against the
beast's rear.  It snapped out as he descended with a kick.  He
threw his arms up to block, desperately, and felt the sting as it
lashed through his shirt and hit flesh.  His kick connected, but
awkwardly, and he faltered; and the tail snapped again and again as
he stumbled back.  Pain blossomed as one strike got through,
leaving a deep gash above his right eye.  In that brief moment of
blindness, blood coursing into his eye, his enemy spun and
connected with a punch.  The impact caught him square in the
chest, fist nearly as large as his rib cage, lifting him and sending him
flying.  He hit the pavement hard, sliding several metres along the
rough ground before stopping.
   Even as he recovered, back of his shirt in tatters, he felt and
heard the beast barrelling towards him, suddenly emerging from
behind the curtain of steadily falling rain.  Claws glinted in the faint
light as it reared back to strike.  Ranma twisted aside, shower of
sparks as steel-sharp nails tore the asphalt asunder; rolled back as
the massive fist slammed into the ground behind him, felt the street
shudder and crater with the impact.  He coiled out of his tight roll,
leapt forward, ignoring the dull throbbing pain in his chest; slipped
past the claw swiping back up, bounced off the fist still imbedded in
the ground.  With a savage yell, he slammed his knee into the
middle of the thing's face.  It shuddered and staggered back, and
before it could recover, Ranma pushed the assault.
   "Kami Hame Ha!" he screamed, both hands tightly
grabbing fistfuls of greasy hair.  Braced solidly against his enemy, he
kicked down, again, and again, and again, dozens of solid heel
thrusts slamming into its sternum within the space of a second.
With the last one he pushed up, knee connecting solidly with its
chin; then his other foot shoved off of one massive shoulder and he
flipped away, clearing a half-dozen metres before landing amidst a
splash of water.  He tossed aside the two giant fistfuls of stringy
black hair he had torn from his foe's head in jumping back.
   Ranma's chest heaved as he gasped for breath, once again
clutching at his wounded side.  Had any of his attacks been
effective?  Striking that thing's hide was worse than punching
Ryoga; its skin was rough and gravelly to the touch, and blood
flecked his own torn knuckles.  He needed to push the attack; he
needed to catch his breath, to reach past the burning pain in his
side. . . .
   His opponent reared back, arms thrown wide, and raised
its head to the skies.  It howled into the pouring rain, bestial release
of anger and frustration, cat-like yowl that set Ranma's flesh
crawling.  Then it stopped, and in the deathly silence following its
cry, the steady patter of falling rain sounded unnaturally loud.  It
lowered its head, and its eyes flared red as it levelled its inhuman
gaze at Ranma.
   A moment later, Ranma heard the sound: a car,
approaching from behind, headlights cutting a  bright swath through
the rain, the source of his enemy's eyes' feline blaze.  Just as he
acknowledged the vehicle's approach, the monster charged,
massive fist tearing up the street as it drew near.  Ranma jumped
back, away and off the street, but even as it ran past it attacked.
The collected earth and pavement scooped up in its paw flew
towards him.  He rolled aside and saw it continue its charge -- into
the approaching vehicle.
   Ranma chased after it, even as it suddenly loomed into full
sight before the car's headlights.  Sudden screech of brakes and
tires locking on slick roads, and the car spun and turned aside in a
desperate attempt to avoid the thing.  Too late, though, as the
monster rammed into the rear of the car, sending it spinning away.
The car crashed sideways into the wall lining the street, and
stopped, one headlight beaming askew, and the horn wailing
incessantly.  As he approached he heard the shriek of tortured
metal, and saw as his opponent ripped a door off the car.  The
large slab of metal and glass was sent flying his way, and he leapt
forward and beneath it, rolling out and back into a run.  Just in time
to see the driver stagger out of the car.
   The man, whoever he was, had enough sense to look back -- and see the thing that had just torn off his door looming over him.
The monster paused for a moment, and then it swung down, claws
scything towards the helpless man who screamed and cowered in
fear.
   It was the pause that saved him, maybe.  Gave Ranma
enough time to leap in front of the attack.  He cried out in pain as
he felt claws slash diagonally across his back, even as he shielded
the man.
   "What. . . ," the man stuttered.
   "Go!"  Ranma gasped, then fell to the ground on all fours.
"Run!"
   The man needed no urging, scrambling to his feet and
running away down the street.  The monster didn't follow.  Before
the martial artist could move, he felt the massive hand grab him
from behind, fist large enough to reach around his entire chest,
wrist-sized fingers griping him and palm tight against his mauled
back.  Its strength was stupendous, crushing the breath from him,
resisting his efforts to break free.  Suddenly he was suspended in
air, as it lifted him up overhead.  Then: dizzying downward rush;
sudden impact, as it crushed him into the ground.  He went limp,
spots dancing before his eyes.  Again, single-fist tight grip, this time
around both legs, and it swung him effortlessly overhead and
slammed him into the roof of the car.  Then swung him about and
sent him flying a dozen metres, spinning in the air, limbs flailing
wildly, further off the road.
   He blacked out on impact; he returned to consciousness
seconds later, he hoped, to shuddering vibration as his enemy
slowly approached.  He lay amidst branches and splinters, and
realized he had hit a tree, and shattered it upon impact.  For a
moment he lay insensate, and breathed deeply of the scent of wet
grass, new earth, fresh wood, and found the smell exquisite.  One
elephantine foot stomped down a mere metre away, jarring him
back to his senses.  He rolled onto his back, and even that minor
effort drew a deep gasp of pain from him.  Amazingly, nothing was
broken, but it hurt -- everything hurt, a deep, resounding ache; and
his side remained a pulsing fire as the blood continued to seep into
the rain.
   It towered over him and gazed down with black, impassive
eyes.  Again, it cocked its head aside, as if in contemplation.  To
Ranma's surprise, it spoke:
   "You are not her," it said, in a voice that sounded
impossibly normal for such an inhuman creature.  Something like
confusion or disappointment underscored the words.  "You are
female; her scent is stronger upon you than any other; and you bear
her mark.  I have followed you all day, and yet you are not her."
   Ranma stared up at it with impotent fury, struggling to move
but finding that his body refused to respond.  "Damn straight I'm
not her," he growled.  "I'm as close as you'll ever get to Akane,
you bastard!"
   Whether it understood or cared, he didn't know.  It stared
down at him for a moment longer, than did something resembling a
shrug.  It reared back with viciously long claws.
   Ranma knew in that moment that it was about to stab
down; that if he didn't move he would end up like those other girls,
torn apart and slaughtered in some alleyway; and he strove to
dodge aside or block with all his might, and even as he moved he
knew it was far too late and far to slow, and felt a surreal panic that
he'd only felt once before seize his heart. . . .
   And then heard a loud shriek of pain as the beast staggered
back, clawing at its own face, dark crimson blossoming from one
eye.  A single figure landed next to him, a slight, long-haired
silhouette against the night sky.  One hand reached down to assist.
   "Are you okay, Mr. Ranma?" Konatsu asked in his soft,
feminine lilt.


   "Listen, Mrs. Saotome," Ukyou said, shuffling in next to the
Saotome matriarch.  "Don't worry about your son."
   The older woman still stared outside apprehensively.  The
first roll of thunder crashed across the sky; a moment later a finger
of lightning touched down and made the horizon flare.  "But, he's all
alone. . . ."
   The okonomiyaki cook chuckled.  "I'm tellin' ya, Ranma's
more than enough to handle whatever's out there.  But even if he
isn't. . . well, I asked a friend to watch over him."
   The relief that passed over Ranma's mother was nearly
palpable.  "You did?"
   "Yeah, sure.  He's a ninja, too, really skilful.  I told him to
hang back -- Ranchan's pride is a bit touchy at times -- but if things
get serious, he'll bail him out."
   "Oh, thank you, dear," Nodoka said.  She turned her eyes
back to the falling rain.  She knew her son was a man among men;
but now it was raining, and Nodoka couldn't bear the thought of
anything happening to her daughter.


   Ranma accepted the offered hand and struggled to his feet.
   "What are you doing here?" he said, loudly, the heavily
falling rain now a background roar that seemed nearly deafening.
He wondered if it was really all that loud; he was surprised he could
hear anything over the ringing in his head.
   The effeminate ninja quickly scanned him over.  "Ukyou
sent me to watch over you.  I'm sorry I stepped in so late."
   "Bah," Ranma said, and coughed, and found his lips
flecked with blood.  "Another second, and I woulda. . . ."
   Their enemy stopped its high-pitched keening and mad
thrashing.  It turned back towards them.  A single shuriken
remained imbedded in one eye, ichorous blood staining half its face
black, though the flow itself had ceased.
   "Nice shot," Ranma said.
   "Many thanks."
   "I think you pissed it off."
   "I think you are right.  How are you feeling?" Konatsu
asked.  "Can you still fight?"
   "Yeah, sure, no problem," he said, thinking quite the
opposite.  Everywhere throbbed with pain, and he began to feel a
curious detachment from his own body.  He tore the tattered
remains of his shirt off and hastily tied it across his chest, which
barely served to conceal his feminine breasts.  At least the bleeding
in his side seemed to be slowing.  He tried a hesitant step and found
his balance off.  "I just need a minute."
   "I will buy you the time, Mr. Ranma," Konatsu said, and
unsheathed one short, curved blade from his back.
   "No lipstick attacks?" Ranma asked.
   "This thing is killing helpless women.  It could hurt Ukyou.
No.  This thing dies tonight."  The look on the pretty ninja's face
was nearly cruel, his eyes slitted and cold, and in that moment
Ranma remembered what Konatsu truly was.  Beneath the layers of
servile behaviour and gentle words, he remained a highly trained
and dangerous killer.
   Then the transvestite waiter was gone, charging swiftly
across the rain-soaked grass, passage leaving no trace, sword
gleaming as he neared the creature in a zig-zag approach.  Ranma
watched as his unexpected ally dodged and leapt and twisted
around their enemy's wild swings, connecting with quick slashes of
his ninjato.  Ranma took a few feeble steps closer to the conflict,
feeling his strength returning.
   He soon noted that, despite the ninja's efforts, the beast
seemed unaffected.  It was neither slowing nor showing signs of
weakening, and Ranma began to wonder how they were going to
stop this thing.  Konatsu was quicker than their enemy, and landing
many solid blows, but for how long could he keep it up?
   The ninja danced back, nearer to Ranma.  "My strikes do
nothing!" he called out.  "The wounds close nearly as quickly as I
make them!  What do we do now?"
   Why're you askin' me? Ranma wanted to answer.  'Hit it
hard.' Ryoga's words echoed in his mind.  'Again and again and
again until it stops moving.'  And maybe that's all there was to it.
Both he and Konatsu used, to a certain degree, a similar style of
fighting: speed over toughness, rapidity over strength, dodging and
attacking with many small strikes until the enemy went down.  But
this new enemy seemed to heal too quickly for that to work.
Maybe this thing needed more of brute-strength approach, a single
debilitating blow. . . .
   "I have an idea," he yelled back.  "Keep it busy!  When
you see me coming, get the hell out of the way!"
   His ally's only response was to once again charge and
engage the enemy.  Ranma did not spare him a second glance, and
stopping only to grab a large broken branch from the ground, ran
towards the crashed car.  It took longer than it should have to get
there; a limp slowed him down, his breathing was ragged, and he
found it hard to walk straight.  But finally he made it, and slipped
into the driver's seat.
   Ranma didn't have a driver's license.  Genma had allowed
him to try the wheel a few times during their travels, when laziness
or terrain had required the rental (or theft) of a vehicle.  Now, he
hoped it wasn't much more difficult than the few television dramas
he had seen made it look.
   The car was still in drive, engine running, windshield
cracked, the roof caved in from his earlier impact.  He tried the gas;
for a moment, the wheels spun uselessly in the muddy ground, then
suddenly grabbed.  The car lurched forward with a scream of metal
on stone, as he pulled away from the wall.
   Alright, you bastard, Ranma thought, spinning the car
around, let's see how you like this!  He fishtailed wildly across the
grass, throwing up a sheet of rain and mud before aiming it towards
the monster.   It suddenly appeared ahead in the crazily swaying
beam of the broken headlight, the battle with Konatsu having
carried it a surprising distance away.  Ranma slammed down on the
accelerator with the thick branch he carried, jammed the other end
into the seat.  He crouched in his seat, coiled and ready, as the car
picked up speed and hurtled forward.  Hurtled forward, faster,
adrenaline pumping as his target loomed closer, muscles tense, and
he gripped the wheel tight, and suddenly screamed, "Anything-
Goes Motor Vehicle Martial Arts Special Attack!" the words
tearing themselves free from his throat.  The hulking beast turned
towards him.
   The car crashed into the monster and sent it reeling.  The
collision sent Ranma flying through the windshield, even as he
sprang forward under his own momentum.  "Shariki Mouko
Totsu!" he yelled, uncrossing arms that absorbed the impact of
breaking through the windshield.  Before he hit his bellowing
enemy, he unleashed as massive a chi-blast as his battered body
and wounded confidence could muster.
   The momentum of both the car and the Moko Takabisha
knocked the creature into and through the stone wall.  It crashed
back -- and disappeared from sight, the car following.  Ranma
realized why a moment later, as his own flight through the air
carried him over the wall: a few metres past, the ground fell away
into a twenty-metre drop to the houses below.
   "Oh shit!" he exclaimed, tumbling into darkness.


   Konatsu slid beneath the monster's outstretched arm and
left it a metre-long slash from wrist to armpit for its efforts.  Yet
even as he danced back, imbedding a trio of throwing stars in its
chest, he saw his last strike close and seal up.  Nothing he tried
worked, and even as his movements slowed and his escapes
became more precarious, his enemy seemed to become more
enraged, more powerful.  Where is Ranma? he wondered, and
dodged an attack and avoided countering in favour of keeping his
distance.  I don't know if I can keep this up much longer.  I've tried
to lure it as far away as possible, but. . . .
   Then he noted the light cut through the rain and heard the
roar of the engine.  Saw as Ranma, crouched in the driver's seat,
spun the car around and pointed it at their enemy; and then the
vehicle was speeding straight for them.
   "No!" Konatsu yelled, even as he jumped aside.  "Not this
way!  The cliff!  The cliff!"
   Whether or not Ranma heard, and ignored, or simply could
not make out the words, Konatsu did not know.  He landed just as
the front of the car impacted with the monster amidst a sickening
crunch of bone and metal.  Blood geysered from its mouth as it
crashed backwards through the wall.  For a moment the ninja
thought that would be it, but then Ranma came flying from the car,
yelling:
   "Shariki Mouko Totsu!"
   And the added attack sent it flying over the edge.  The car
followed, with Ranma close behind.
   "Oh shit!" the young man exclaimed, clawing wildly at the
air.
   Without hesitation Konatsu ran forward and leapt from the
cliff.  In his wounded state, flailing as he was, Ranma's fall could
prove fatal.  Arrow-like, the ninja dove through the air and grabbed
the surprised martial artist in his arms; grabbed him and flipped
beneath.
   They hit the wet ground at an angle, nearly uncontrolled,
and Konatsu absorbed the worst of it.  A sudden sharp pain, and
he felt something snap; his leg gave out beneath him and he
collapsed, dull impact numbing his side, and Ranma went flying
from his grasp.  For a moment he lay there, immobile.  Then he
tried to rise and realized that his right ankle was broken, and
gasped softly from the pain.
   Ranma rose a few metres away and crawled across the
grass to join him.  "Konatsu. . . hey, Konatsu, are you okay?"
   Konatsu winced but forced a wry grin.  "I'll live.  But my
ankle is broken."  He tried to move his right arm and realized his
shoulder was dislocated as well.
   A scream: they turned to see a man and woman run from
the house, half-naked.  From inside they heard a fierce bellow of
pain and anger.  They had landed outside; apparently both the car
and their enemy had gone through the house's roof
   "Hit it hard," Ranma said.  "That's what Ryoga said.  Again
and again and again until it stops moving."  He climbed to his feet,
face set with determination, somehow pushing back the pain and
weariness.  "We can't give that thing enough time to heal."  He
took a single step towards the house, another, and another, each
pace stronger and firmer than the last.  He glanced back at the
ninja.  "Can you make it?" he asked.
   Konatsu nodded and rose as well, weight shifting to his
good leg.  "You go," he said.  "I will catch up."  He took a limping
step.  "Let us finish this," the ninja said.  "For Ukyou."
   Ranma nodded, and hurried away, and for a moment,
uncertain in the rain, it seemed that the young martial artist who
looked like a girl answered back, "For Akane."


   The monster was crouching on one knee when he found it.
Blood poured from its eye, from a half-metre shard of metal
imbedded in its scalp, from terrible wounds across its body.  The
combination of the car hitting it, then landing on it, and Ranma's
own blast, had crushed the front of its chest, and thick, white bones
pierced the brownish hide.  The long, spindly arm hung limply, and
three of its steely claws were sheared at the base.  Worst of all, it
had somehow impaled itself in crashing through the roof, and a
broken wooden beam pierced it through the stomach.  He could
see the flesh twist and crawl around the wood, trying to close and
heal, but to no avail.  Behind it, the remains of the car lay amidst the
wreckage of what had been a kitchen.
   It can't heal something still stuck inside of it, Ranma
thought.  That's why its eye is still out, it can't pull out Konatsu's
shuriken.  Yet even as he stepped into the room, rain pouring
through the hole in the ceiling, he saw it rise fully, the massive
damage it had taken slowly healing before his eyes.
   "No way," he whispered, "No way you're getting up
again."  And then he flowed forward.
   It swung its giant fist and hit nothing but air.  It, too, was
slowed by its wounds, but at that moment, Ranma felt faster than he
had in months.  A savage thrill coursed through his veins.  His
strikes were precise and strong, and he felt his opponent shudder
with each hit.  It fell back with each kick that cracked bone, roared
at each punch that reopened freshly-healed wounds.  The martial
artist felt something hovering at the edge of his battle consciousness,
something tenuous that danced amidst instinct,
   _glorious suspension between Heaven and Earth_
   and he struck forward, unaware of his own screaming
battle cry, and hurled his body against the monster.  It fell with the
impact, crashing hard against the wall, and collapsed.
   "Mr. Ranma, here!" a voice called out, from behind, even
as, breath raw and rasping and hot in his chest, he leapt towards his
fallen foe.
   He didn't look as he landed on the monster's chest, feet
braced against its shoulders, reached back and snagged from the
air what Konatsu had thrown his way.  It was light and balanced in
his grip, and he twirled it once overhead before gripping it with both
fists and slamming it down into his enemy's chest.
   Blood spurted out, spraying him in its ichor, and only then
did Ranma realize he had just pierced the monster's chest with
Konatsu's blade.  The entire body heaved mightily once, back
arcing and thrashing in pain, before crashing back to the ground.
The flesh writhed about the steel of the sword.  Its one eye
focussed on the young man still sitting on its chest.
   "Her mark on you is strongest," it said, voice now a
wheezing gasp, far too human-sounding for Ranma's tastes.  "And
we know you now as well.  Through you we shall have her."
   "You ain't got nothing," Ranma said.
   It twitched one last time, and then was still.  A great sigh
escaped from it, and the head lolled to one side, and whatever light
that strange, dark eye had held dimmed forever.


   How long did he kneel there, astride the great chest of the
felled beast, numb and staring sightlessly down at that ugly, lifeless
face.  In the immediate aftermath of his victory, the fire that had
carried him in those final moments drained away and left him
incredibly weary.  Only when he heard the uneven steps behind him
and felt the hand fall softly on his shoulder, did he pull his gaze
away.  He absently realized he was still grasping Konatsu's sword
with both hands.  He forcibly let go and was numbly surprised at
how he tight his grip had been, at how his palm ached.
   "You did it," the ninja said.
   I won, Ranma dully repeated to himself.  He stared at the
sword piercing the monster's chest.
   With stiff, wooden movements he rose to his feet.
Wordlessly pulled the sword free -- it slid loose with little
effort -- and returned it to his ally.  He stumbled and Konatsu was there to catch him.  Supporting each other, they limped towards the exit.  As they stepped outside the rain faltered, lessened, and within
seconds stopped.
   "Sure, _now_ it stops raining," Konatsu muttered, for a
moment sounding distinctly unfeminine.  Ranma snorted, then
chuckled, and finally laughed.  He nearly collapsed from the pain.
   "Aw, shit," he said, and wiped the blood and dirt and water
from his mouth.  "Let's get the hell out of here."


   The ticking of the clock sounded absurdly loud in the tense
silence in which the assembled people sat.  Akane tried to peel her
eyes from the slowly moving hands, but again and again they slid
back to the timepiece.  It's so late, she thought, as the minute hand
clicked forward another notch, and he's not back yet.  Deep
concern gnawed at the pit of her stomach.  Don't worry, she tried
to tell herself, he's got Konatsu with him.  He probably hasn't even
found anything.  Of course he's okay.
   But then why isn't he back, why hasn't he even called?
   Her anger and frustration with him had been so vivid before
he left; her self-loathing at that moment had only accentuated her
rage towards him.  To assume she would only be a hindrance in his
search; to presume that he could order her to stay behind!  And
yet, behind the resulting anger, a certain relief that she was released
from the responsibility of actually hunting this killer -- for now, she
could admit that she had been terribly frightened.  Three girls
already dead, in the dark, in some lonely back alley, and she knew
that they had not been easy, normal deaths, despite Ranma's efforts
to hide the full details from her.
   But she was a martial artist! she berated herself.  It was her
duty to confront these horrors in the dark, to overcome her own
fears.  Ukyou had not been afraid.  The intense jealousy she had
felt at _that_ had only soured her mood further.  Am I really so
petty, she thought, to be envious in a situation such as this?
   Now, though, all that was left was a hollow fear that
somehow everything had gone horribly wrong, and if the worst had
somehow happened to Ranma, her final memories of him would be
angry ones; and even as she cursed herself for such excessively
melodramatic thoughts, the worry remained and grew with each
passing minute.
   The door slid open and everyone held their collective
breaths, until two figures stepped wearily into the living room where
they all sat.
   "I won," Ranma announced, and flashed a cocky grin
before collapsing in a half-naked battered heap on the tatami floor.


   He awoke slowly to bright light and the sounds of chirping
birds, dream-images of primal flame and deathly chill fading from
mind.  He went to sit and sank back into the soft bed with a groan,
and Ranma realized that he was in a great deal of pain.
   "About time you wake up," said a voice, though muted
concerned belied the words.  Ranma looked and saw Ryoga sitting
against the wall opposite him.
   "What time is it?" he asked, pushing aside the pain and
successfully siting up this time.  After the initial shock of pain, it
really wasn't so bad.  But I'm still a girl, he noted, and sighed.  You
think somebody would've changed me back.
   "Almost noon.  You've been out for thirteen hours or so."
   "Wow."  His stomach grumbled.  "Guess I needed it."
   Ryoga pulled himself closer.  "Ranma, we've got a
problem."
   "Yeah.  I'm hungry.  Big problem."
   "No, you moron.  Bigger.  I had a talk with Konatsu."
   Ranma nodded.  "How is he?  He really saved my ass last
night."
   "He's so-so.  Listen, the thing you fought. . . ."
   "Yeah, what was up with that, Mr. P?  You idiot, it wasn't
anything like what you described!  I mean, Mousse, I could
understand, he's blind, but. . . ."
   "Will you shut up!" Ryoga yelled, turning angry.  "You
didn't stop it!"
   The pigtailed martial artist frowned.  "Yes, I did," he said.
"I grabbed Konatsu's sword and I. . . ."  His voice choked for a
moment.  "I stopped it."
   "No, no, no," Ryoga insisted.  "Maybe yours.  But not
mine.  I'm telling you, I know what I saw.  What I fought was
nothing like yours.  Mine was short and green and fast.  And it got
away."
   "Well, then. . . maybe it evolved or something, or, like, it's
a shapechanger, and knowing I was so much tougher than you
guys, changed, or. . . ."
   "Or maybe there's more of these things," Ryoga finished.
His fixed Ranma with serious, dark eyes.  "Maybe there's more of
them out there."
   Ranma slumped back into his futon.  "Shit."
   "Exactly."
   "No, man, you don't understand.  This is bad, really really
bad.  Right before that thing. . . died, it said something about a
'mark'.  That it could get to Akane through me."
   "Yeah, but it's dead, right?"
   "What about the others?  It said Akane's scent was on me,
stronger than anyone else.  It was dying, but still threatened me.  I
think it knew its friends would be able to track me as well."
   Ryoga sat back, blood draining from his face.  "But you
came. . . ."
   "Straight home, dammit.  I led them straight to her!  There's
more of them out there, Ryoga, and now they're coming!"


Continues in
Chapter Three: The Nature of the Beast

***

Chapter Notes:

Akako Nishin: Ranma ought to have clued in.  Her name translates
as Aka (red) Ko (girl) Nishin (herring).  She's a red herring!  Isn't
Kanji fun?

Kami Hame Ha: Ka(harsh) Mi(increasing) Ha(grip) Me(number)
Ha(rip) - Increasingly Harsh Hair Grip and Rip (with the 'number'
kanji, misused, referring to the 'kami' (hair) pun).  A somewhat
tenuous Dragonball pun.

Shariki Mouko Totsu:  Sha (car) Riki (power) Mou (fierce) ko
(tiger) Totsu (strike) - Car-Powered Fierce Tiger Strike.  The
'Totsu' kanji is also used in the word shoutotsu (collision / crash)
which is nicely appropriate, I think.

noakes_m@hotmail.com
http://www.geocities.com/noakes_m

_________________________________________________________________________
Get Your Private, Free E-mail from MSN Hotmail at http://www.hotmail.com.

Share information about yourself, create your own public profile at http://profiles.msn.com.